


Love the Way You Lie

by SilentSinger



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Love/Hate, M/M, Torture, Violence, bit of a headfuck really, overzealous use of horror imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-08 14:44:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8849056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentSinger/pseuds/SilentSinger
Summary: When a tornado meets a volcano.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rissalf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rissalf/gifts).



> Post S03E11: Beware the Green-Eyed Monster.

Barbara, Tabitha and Butch were placated for now. That was enough. He had no use for them at this point, just needed them out of the way. He had a plan, of course. It would be inerudite of anyone to presume otherwise. Right now though, he just wanted to walk.

Exiting Sirens and taking a left, he allows himself to wander, taking in his surroundings but never really seeing them. Isabella was gone. Isabella was gone and the one person he’d grown to trust was responsible.

_ “For some men, love is a source of strength.” _

One week. One week of utmost bliss. Perfection. It was as if he’d been absolved of his misdeeds toward Miss Kringle and afforded a fresh start. Isabella had been his chance. His chance for redemption. His only chance.

_ “But for you and I, it will always be our most crippling weakness.” _

The air is bitter. The fog is suffocating. He needs warmth, he needs shelter. He needs to  _ think. _

Two rights. One left. Keep moving. Onwards, upwards. Where are we going? Does it matter? Does anything matter anymore? Past the Kowalski bakery. Carry on. Just twenty more minutes. Towards the horizon. Beyond the park. There’s the toy store. We’re almost there. We’re almost here.

We’re-

Edward highly doubts that the landlord has changed the locks. He hasn’t. Not a great many takers – even in Gotham City – for the apartment of a man who murdered his lover in cold blood.

_ It was an accident. _

_...Wasn’t it? _

Irrelevant. It’s cold in here. Stale. Save for the thick layer of grime, the place is preserved entirely – the way a grieving parent might maintain the room of an untimely departed child. After removing his overcoat and placing it carefully on the hook beside the door, he sits heavily on the sofa. A dense cloud of dust billows up around him and a large, brown spider scuttles away from underneath it. He coughs, but this will do. This is fine.

_ “I hope you know, Oswald. I would do anything for you.” _

He fiddles absentmindedly with a protruding thread from the cushion upon which he’s seated: wraps it tight around his forefinger and observes blankly as the tip turns mauve. He hadn’t been lying. It hadn’t been a game. Oswald had taught him so much –  _ given _ him so much, that Edward was forever in his debt – and furthermore, Oswald had accepted him for who he was and who he was capable of becoming... who he was already becoming. And Oswald had loved him back.

Because he wasn’t going to deny it to himself. He’d loved Oswald. He  _ loves _ Oswald.  _ Fuck, _ he loves Oswald Cobblepot. But he has to pay. He has to bleed. Fuck the plan. What he really wants is-

 

He’d be seated on a chair. Bound to it by the arms and legs. Both eyes blackened from the scuffle; Ed’s own knuckles bruised and raw. A trickle of blood seeping from the glossy black electrical tape covering his mouth. His pale, swollen eyes watching, waiting.

****

“One week, Oswald. Seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours.” Edward paces the floor, his gaze purposely avoiding the dried splatter of crimson on the grimy flagstone from the removal of Tabitha’s hand in this very room not two days ago. He cannot help focusing on the fact that this feels wholly different. The glee he’d derived from tormenting Butch and Tabitha was no longer present; this isn’t about his pleasure. This isn’t even about killing. He wants Oswald to  _ feel. _

“She was a good woman, Oswald,” he continues, swallowing the lump in his throat. “You took her from me. She was my chance, Oswald. My one fucking chance.”

Edward can’t even look. Doesn’t care how Oswald is reacting, or whether he’s even reacting at all. There would be time enough for that.  _ Compose yourself. You’re doing fine. Breathe. _

“You were selfish. I loved her. You loved-”

_ “We are better off unencumbered.”  _

“You loved me. And I...”

_ Fuck.  _

“It doesn’t matter,” says Edward, shaking his head and pacing further. He looks at the ceiling, looks at his feet. Anywhere but Oswald. Anywhere. He exhales. “You have a choice. I’m giving you a choice.”

****

A police siren wails as it passes, followed by several more. Red and blue light cuts through the green neon from the signage outside and his darkened apartment appears iridescent as a result; it seems mildly ethereal. It’s still an amiable place for Ed – a bricks-and-mortar extension of his very being. It still feels like home. Perhaps when all this was over, he’d come back here. 

Perhaps.

****

Despite his better judgement, he allows himself to regard Oswald fully. He’s trembling, his hands clenched into fists and his jaw set tight. He’s staring right back at Edward, unblinking eyes boring into him – as if seeing right through him. He’s been in this business his whole damn life. He knows he’s done wrong. He knows. He knows he must pay.

“Option one. One week, Oswald. I break one finger.”

Oswald doesn’t flinch.

“Option two. Seven days. Seven electric shocks from that device over there.” Ed nods towards the contraption and headgear he’d used on Butch recently, shuddering as he recounts the innate satisfaction he’d gleaned from the experience.

“Or option three,” he continues, producing from his breast pocket the very same pocketknife that he’d once used on Officer Tom Dougherty. “I cut you. One hundred and sixty-eight times.”

_ Take option one so this can be over with and we can go about our lives. _

“So,” says Edward, sucking in a deep, steadying breath as he closes the gap between them and removes the tape covering Oswald’s mouth. “Which do you choose?”

****

If he closes his eyes he can still hear her muffled screams secreting from the gap between his fingers; he can still feel the increasing tempo of her pulse as his hand closes around her throat. He flexes his digits instinctively. He’d sworn it was an accident until he’d almost believed it himself. It hadn’t been. It’s cold in here; the air seems rotten. He contemplates his old bed – with its patchwork quilt and inordinately soft mattress – and considers taking a nap regardless, because he’s utterly exhausted. But not now, not now. It’s time for-

****

To Ed’s dismay, he picks option three. His voice is devoid of all emotion – practically autonomous.

The first two cuts to his exposed chest evoke no response. His lips are pressed tight as he stares resolutely at Edward.

As the blood from the third and fourth lacerations flows effortlessly down his pale skin, he begins to falter, but only slightly. Tears well in his eyes and his fingernails claw the shabby leather armrests of the chair. He doesn’t scream though. He doesn’t make a sound. Ed straddles him and tackles cuts five, six and seven the way an artist might apply some fine detail to an intricate painting. They curve into one another but never touch, and he works his way further down with each. The streams of crimson run freely – heavily contrasted against Oswald’s ivory skin and pooling at the waistband of his suit pants.

Nothing.

Eight. Nine.

Nothing. 

_ Why isn’t he reacting? Feel something, for fuck’s sake! Respond! _

“Fucking  _ react!” _ Edward seems as taken aback at the words blurting from his mouth as Oswald does. They both still for a moment and regard one another – Ed’s mouth agape as they breathe in unison. Heat bathes his body, radiating from its core and working its way to every extremity. He’s beyond angry. He’s fucking furious.

“Feel something!” he cries, slicing Oswald haphazardly with the blade and adding lacerations ten, eleven and twelve to the mix. “I need to you fucking feel something!”

Oswald is trying to speak now. His voice is barely a whisper. He appears to lose focus briefly before he looks Edward directly in the eye. 

“No,” he croaks. “I won’t.”

****

It no longer feels chilly in here. He’s warm and the air is heavy – relatively cloying. It’s stifling. The excess of dust and grime surrounding him is seeping deep into his pores. He’s dimly aware that he’s become erect.

****

“What do you want from me?” Ed murmurs. He’s gripping Oswald’s bound arms and their foreheads are pressed together. Oswald feels simultaneously hot and cold. The knife lies forgotten on the stone tile beneath them. Edward is scared now, he’s fucking terrified. Their hot breath fuses together as their lips meet; Oswald tastes of salt and metal. Oswald reciprocates, kissing Ed back in earnest, his cheeks dewy with fresh tears. Edward fumbles with the blood-soaked zipper on Oswald’s pants.

“What do you want from me?” Edward repeats, this time into Oswald’s mouth. His own voice sounds disjointed – a separate entity – as if he’s hearing himself over the telephone.

“You,” Oswald says simply.

****

Edward’s fondest memories of this place would always involve Oswald. Such as that one defining moment when their sense of trust had been established for good – as the student guided the master. The cool blade at his throat; Oswald’s heated exhalations against his face. Their academic relationship was of course consummated via the prolonged execution of Galavan’s lackey, Mr. Leonard. Ed had learned a great many things, simply by watching Oswald work. Oswald was incredibly proficient. Oswald was an artist.

Edward unzips his pants.

****

Ed grabs a fistful of Oswald’s hair, which is slick and damp with perspiration. He tugs his head back as his lips explore the smooth skin of Oswald’s exposed neck. He works Oswald’s cock with his other hand, slow movements up and down, twisting gently at the tip. Edward’s crisp, white shirt is now soaked in Oswald’s blood. Oswald is moaning. 

He’s finally reacting.

****

Edward bites his lip and inhales long and hard through his nose as he wraps his fingers around his thick shaft and strokes it slowly. His whole body is shaking. His hand feels as though it belongs to somebody else. Through half-lidded eyes he can no longer focus on his surroundings. No more ghosts from his past. Not a damn thing matters except here and now; he’s lost to everything but touch, heat and gratification. He throws his head back and curses loudly.

****

He doesn’t recall untying Oswald, yet here they are. Their lips are locked together and Oswald’s hands claw and grab at Ed’s back as Edward pushes him forcibly against the nearest wall. Oswald’s pants have been removed and Ed’s shirt is unbuttoned. He doesn’t remember doing either. He frees his own cock, gives it a couple of slick strokes with a viscous hand and bends his knees slightly as he lifts Oswald – one hand holding onto Oswald’s thigh, the other guiding his erection. As he presses inside, the blood and sweat from their chests combine – adhering them together like a macabre glue. It’s a sense of intimacy beyond simple carnality. Ed  _ needs  _ Oswald. Needs him like he needs oxygen.

“Is this what you want?”

“Yes.”

Their lips meet once more and it’s more than simply lust. It’s love, it’s hate. It’s rage and mania. It’s passion. Pure, unadulterated, absolute.

Ed begins to grind his hips, building up a steady momentum, lips still upon Oswald’s. He punches the wall with his free hand; blood oozes from his knuckles. He doesn’t feel a thing.

He grabs hold of Oswald’s other thigh and bears his weight entirely. He thrusts harder; he wants to bury himself in Oswald completely. He has to be  _ in _ Oswald, wholly and utterly. Further. Deeper. This is what he wants. This is what he’s wanted all along.  _ Let me hear you Oswald, I have to hear you. This has to be real, make it real. _

It seems to last forever. Ed wants it to. Trapped in a perpetual unreality: so close and yet so far. It has to end though, it must.

He rolls his hips once, twice more, and Oswald is coming, completely untouched. His cries echo around the cavernous quiet of the room. Edward feels it – experiences it everywhere at once and he’s coming too, but he can’t leave; he won’t leave. Not now, not yet.

But he has to. 

****

He sits bolt upright. He’s out of breath and he’s sweating. His heart is drumming a heavy tattoo in his ears. He brushes the perspiration from his forehead with one hand as he regards the mess adorning the other. He frowns and wipes it clean with his handkerchief.

He has no idea how long he’s been here – but the pale orange hue bathing the apartment from the rising sun outside leaves him with little doubt.

Oswald would be wondering where he is. He’d be beside himself with worry. 

_ Oswald... _

He rubs the knuckles of his right hand instinctively. His eyes prickle with tears.

_ “A man with nothing that he loves... is a man who cannot be bargained. A man that cannot be betrayed. A man who answers to no one... but himself.” _

The hitherto incomprehensible truth of the matter – brought into focus like an emerging image on a Polaroid photo. The cardinal rule of Edward’s own maxim broken. He supposes now, that he ought to find Oswald and resolve things once and for all.

One way or another.

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas.
> 
> [okimi79.tumblr.com](http://okimi79.tumblr.com)
> 
> [Please click here for an artist's impression by my sickeningly talented girlfriend. Quite simply the most amazing thing I've ever seen in my whole damn life.](http://riddlelvr.tumblr.com/post/155690742533/love-the-way-you-lie-by-okimi79)


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